An Irregular Occurence
by cardiovascularlyshattered
Summary: This story explores the developing relationship between Haymitch and Effie, from her recruitment for the 62nd Annual Hunger Games up until the end of Catching Fire. Irritated or content, sober or chaste, there's certain to always be something to make each Hunger Games worth remembering. This shall eventually transform into an M, but for now let's keep it kid-friendly.
1. The Awkward Arrival

**Hey people. This is a HAYFFIE fic that will span from the 62****nd**** Hunger Games, until the end of Catching Fire. It will detail the development of the relationship between Haymitch and Effie; in much more detail than is present in the books and the movies. Anyone notice the sexual tension between them? Well, I'll get to that too. Eventually this fic shall transform into an "M". But for now let's keep it kid friendly.**

**Disclaimer: No, no….Suzanne Collins is no here. **

….

The sweat trickled down his skin, paving the way to the already drenched sheets beneath him. His head rolled feverishly, attempting to shake himself out of the boundaries of his altered state of consciousness that held him hostage. His arm twitched slightly, the visions plaguing him so vivid that he was unable to differentiate between reality and illusion. He jolted, adrenaline surging through his veins and forcing him to bolt upright. He snapped his eyes open, the darkness of his bedroom dreary compared to the vividness of his nightmare. Haymitch cast his head downwards, groaning as he comprehended the fact that he was finally awake. "Fuck." He mumbled, bringing his hand to wipe away the sweat from the back of his neck.

It must be getting closer to the Games. It always got like this as the Games approached. The carefully, mercilessly plotted annual month or so that reawakened his horrors into a stark intensity, that reopened his wounds, ripping flesh apart that left him so broken he would be rendered unable to even _attempt_ to begin living again.

The damp sheets were cold again his skin beneath his soaked shirt, reminding him of his hells that so taunted him. Sleep would not be returning tonight. Haymitch sighed, his head resting against his knee as his body begged for rest. But his mind couldn't go through that again right now. He pulled himself out of his bed, having to hold onto the wall to ensure he wouldn't fall back. A glance toward the window conveyed him it was still dark, although he knew by the length of his slumber that it wouldn't be long before the break of morning.

Haymitch fingered the hem of his shirt nervously, before pulling it up, over his head and making his may towards the bathroom. Fumbling around for the lightswitch, he shielded his eyes from the sudden flood of light. His reflection in the mirror greeted him, and Haymitch proceeded to eye it suspiciously. In just his boxers, the majority of his body was exposed in the harsh and unflattering light. His Games scars were prominent, particularly the one that ran across his abdomen, the one that almost cost him his life. It had been twelve years since he was graced with it, but it had never really healed well. It bothered him if he slept for too long on his stomach, when his body convulsed as he brought up the contents of his stomach, or when he engaged in carnal activities that got particularly rough. His hair was badly in need of a cut, almost reaching his shoulders. But Haymitch was against anyone else touching his hair, and so he compelled himself to cut it himself on rare instances. His face still retained the presence of youth, but was marred by the lines of anxiousness and worry. He huffed slightly, his body simply a physical manifestation of the turmoil beneath. But there was nothing he could do about it.

The shower cleansed his body and soothed his manic mind, yet stung against the cuts and scars that reacted to the water's presence. The sweat was removed from his pores, and his hair received a cleaning from the water that batted unrelentingly against his scalp. He closed his eyes, his jaw set in a hardened line. The only good thing that came from this time of year was the presence of others. Despite the fact that it was not a presence he particularly enjoyed, it was better than only talking to his empty house. He emerged after a long time soaking himself in the water, clad only in a pair of boxers. He retrieved a half-empty bottle as he descended the stairs. The liquid burned against his throat, aware that this time of year called for the harder stuff.

Haymitch ambled around, glancing at a package marked with the Capitol seal that lay on the floor on the hallway. He eyed it suspiciously, his distaste at the Capitol seal taking a back seat to the curiosity. It was rare that he received news from the Capitol, and likely indicated change. He was right. The official papers served to notify him that the escort for District had been changed. The reason given was that the previous escort, Thalia Ephingstone, had retired after giving birth to a child. Haymitch smirked, unsurprised that the escort had settled down with a family. She was rather sweet-natured, understanding of Haymitch's horrors and never pretended for a moment more than necessary that the Games were a jovial affair. Haymitch respected her, and was inwardly happy for her. The following passage of the letter indicated who the new escort was. _Effie Trinket_: a new escort barely out of the prestigious "Games Academy" that, in Haymitch's view; was just a further extension of the tyrannical indoctrination that the government awarded Panem.

Enclosed were some general information on the new escort, including her age, which in particular caught Haymitch's attention. She was just _twenty_. Haymitch snickered. She was younger than him by a long shot. Eight long years to be exact. To Haymitch, she was just a child. _This is going to be fun, _Haymitch thought. He took another slug from his bottle, scanning through the gabble that continued on laboriously in the letter.

Morning dawned; the birds began chattering and the soft pastel lights of dawn filled the sky. Haymitch finished the Capitol garbage, and tossed it aside carelessly, returning to the bottle. He rested his head against the sofa, and allowed his eyes to close over. He wouldn't permit himself to sleep, but he could at least rest for a second. It soothed him, and he continued downing the contents of the bottle with an acquired ease that only developed from experience.

Somewhere in the back of his mind he registered a faint sound that resembled a knocking. His brow furrowed, and he realised he'd fallen into an uneasy slumber. But he can't have been out for long, for his hair that he had failed to dry off was still damp. _Knock knock knock._ It finally occurred to him that the knocking was indeed at his door, and he rose out of the sofa, trailing his bottle in his hand alongside. He snapped open the door. "What?" He greeted in annoyance, his gaze harsh throwing the visitor off-guard, as she took a tentative step back.

It was not just his demeanour that had shocked her. Her widened eyes gazed him up and down, taking in the fact that he stood there, bottle in hand, dressed in nothing but a pair of black boxers that; thank god, were fairly loose. She felt herself blush fiercely, aware of the redness that was sure to permeate through her dense layer of carefully-applied cosmetics. Haymitch glanced down; wondering if perhaps he had a wound bleeding that had struck the woman into shock. "What!" He repeated eagerly, with traces of exacerbation evident in his raised tone. Effie Trinket pulled herself out of her shocked state, and struggled to introduce herself. "I-I…" Her throat constricted, and she swallowed hurriedly as her cheeks drained of all colour. Haymitch quirked an eyebrow at her. "Mr Abernathy." She stammered finally. "Oh." He replied. "Wrong house." Relief flooded over her and she looked as though she was about to grin in faked embarrassment. Haymitch stifled a smirk. "I'm kidding."

Dazed and confused, Effie struggled to hide the mortified look plastered onto her face, and found herself unable to make a quick recovery. Haymitch revelled in her displacement, having no intention of assisting her. _Think Effie, think._ On impulse, she held out her hand. "I'm Effie Trinket, newly assigned escort for District Twelve." Haymitch rested his eyes on her hand, and left it in awkward limbo before she tentatively retracted it. "You're Haymitch Abernathy, sole mentor for District Twelve." Haymitch raised the bottle to his lips, and could swear that as he did anger flickered momentarily in her eyes. "So we've established." He replied. Effie recognised the sarcasm, and pursed her lips. "You're not going to invite me in?" She spluttered, much too fast to be properly articulated, but anger lacing her words. Haymitch raised his head and appeared to consider for a moment. "No." Effie's mouth formed an "O" in the horror of being refused entry. She fidgeted momentarily, but Haymitch continued to stand in the doorway.

"Well, Mr Abernathy, today marks the day of the annual reaping, and I'd appreciate if you could muster up the _manners_ to present yourself to the Justice Building at nine o'clock sharp…today." She placed deliberate emphasis on the _manners_, and Haymitch suspected she had to bite back not elaborating more on his lack of manners. "What time is it now?" He replied, forcing her to break the harsh glance she had directed towards him to look at her wristwatch. "It's twenty-four minutes past eight."

Haymitch nodded slightly, but didn't respond past that, and continued to stand in the doorway. Effie's glance darted around, trying to locate a safe place to maintain her gaze as the blush returned to her cheeks at Haymitch's state. He bent slightly towards her, causing her eyes to widen. His voice was lowered considerably. "The justice building is over there." He said, indicating towards the town. Effie swallowed hard, embarrassment and anger fighting for dominance. "Oh. Yes." Her mouth was left partly ajar as she took a step back, before turning in her high heels to exit. Haymitch watched her go, a smirk tugging at his lips. He couldn't tell whether she was an improvement or a downgrade from the previous escort. He shrugged, shutting the door behind him and began to prepare for the arduous parade that was The 62nd Hunger Games.

….

**Well, there is the first instalment. I have lots of little scenes and ideas jotted down, so review/follow/favourite or buy me pizza should you like this story to be continued. It's as simple as that. Thank you for reading! Ship the Hayffie!**


	2. The Rueful Rules

**Sup people, here's chapter two. Shout-out to those who made their presence known through reviews/follows etc. Much appreciated.**

**If you haven't noticed already, I like developing characters. That goes for the tributes also. Too often I read a fanfiction, and feel no connection to the tributes. There's a reason we liked the ones Suzanne Collins conjured. They had personality! (applause). So, I shall try my best to characterise them aptly, because ideally, I want you to get attached! They deserve more than to be passing supporting character shadows that you glaze over.**

**Disclaimer: Still not mine.**

**Enjoy!**

….

Effie's carefully manicured hand lingered tensely over the great glass bowl for the female tribute. Effie swallowed harshly, and tried to remember _why_ it was that she was here; in District Twelve, hovering over a glass bowl, determining fate. She had never expected to be in this position. It had been largely inadvertent, and on many occasions, out of her control.

Effie had always been an outstanding student, and applied herself diligently to her studies. Her family had always placed such a high emphasis on education. "_Education will set you free_" her father would say on lazy Sunday afternoons of her childhood. Well, right now Effie felt anything but free. Even her elaborately-decorated attire seemed to constrict her.

It was common knowledge that the very best and brightest of Panem would be accepted into the _Hunger Games Academy_, which trained up all persons for employment within the Games. From Gamemakers to technological engineers, escorts and designers, they all originated from being the very top in their field in Secondary Education. Thus, when Euphemia Trinket had completed her privileged Secondary Education at the prestigious _Miss Minchin's Academy for Young Ladies _at the top of her year, it was simply _expected_ of her to accept the offer from the Games Academy. It was unheard of for anyone to reject an offer, unless they came from an important bloodlines that had duties to perform. So, Effie accepted.

"_Education will set you free"_. The words echoed around her head, taunting her endlessly. It had definitely _not_ set her free. It had landed her here, plucking out tributes for slaughter. Over time the whole Games business began to revolt her. "Muscida Barker!" Effie announced as cheerfully as she could muster. There was movement among the sixteen year-olds, and sighs of relief flooded over the rows of girls as they realised it's not them. Muscida Barker shuffled forward, as the cameras frantically searched for her in the crowd. Unlike the majority of the girls, Muscida wasn't undernourished. She came from the fortunate Merchant class, and it was purely by chance that she had been selected. Children from the Merchant class rarely had to apply for tessera, and it was relatively occasional that Merchant children were drawn. Tears streaked her face, her hand set in a fist to prevent the shaking. Effie encouraged her towards the stage, but the girl was mostly in a daze, and it took several moments to get her to face the cameras.

Muscida's long golden locks fell messily around her shoulders. She was attractive, yes. But frightened beyond comparison. Her skin was absent of any markings: she was not expected to perform manual labour, and given her slightly raised social ranking, she had never been allowed to brawl or fight during her adolescence. Her fragile wrist held a bangle; not very elaborate, but marked with her initials. Her upper lip quaked ferociously as she stared blankly out onto the square of her relieved peers. There was no one to take her place. There was no collective mourning. She wasn't really that much to lose. Her friends were few and far-between, and the only person who really cherished her existence was her father. Muscida searched for his face, but could not find him.

Effie moved onto the bowl for the boys, noting that there were considerably more names entered compared to the girls. "Tom Weatheringstone". The boys gave a thankful sigh, and Effie's eyes searched for movement within the rows. Unsuprisingly, Tom Weatheringstone was from the Seam, the poorest part of District Twelve. He emerged tentatively from the fourteen year-olds, and trudged towards the stage. His expression was fixed: he knew he was walking to his death. He knew it was inevitable. He had obviously thought this over. Effie eyed him curiously. He was handsome: with messy dark hair that complemented his fierce grey eyes. His thick brows and clenched jaw provided his appearance with a brutality that wasn't really him. Just by looking at him you could tell that every muscle in his being was being strained. _That's good,_ thought Effie. _Handsome gets sponsors_. Effie encouraged the tributes to shake hands, and they did so. "The tributes for District Twelve!"

...

The train moved swiftly out of the station, precisely on the time it was scheduled to, much to Effie's delight. Tributes Muscida and Tom sat awkwardly in the elaborately cushioned couches, and Effie did her best to attempt to put them as ease. But neither of the tributes were particularly interested. Muscida was fascinated by the ornate richness of the main cabin: she had never seen such beauty. Muscida's father was a peacekeeper, and given his position it allowed him to shower his daughter with fabrics that came from the Capitol. She had her fair share of beautiful, rich things; but nothing she had seen compared to this. It was exquisite: the candleholders, the curtains, the wall decorations. Everything screamed perfection. Tom however didn't appear the least bit interested in the cabin, nor Effie's futile attempts at light conversation designed to unhinge his jaw and un-cloud his guarded eyes. It was not until Supper had come around that Tom showed any sign of being human. His eyes lit up at the glorious outlay of food before them, and Effie watched in disdain as a sliver of drool ran down from the corner of his mouth. He couldn't resist; launching himself into the rich fare, determined to try everything.

Dinner was mostly an uncomfortable affair for Effie, who had, at least before her meeting with Haymitch earlier, expected that they would work together at accommodate the tributes. However, when Haymitch stumbled onto the train minutes before it was intending to leave, he disappeared into his room, leaving Effie to entertain the tributes without the help of a mentor. She had been largely unprepared for such a turn of events, but she was resourceful enough to work out topics to talk about with the tributes that wouldn't be over sensitive. This mainly left her talking endlessly about the Capitol, and by nightfall she had enlightened the tributes on everything from hairstyles to architecture, parades and sugared sweets. She had exhausted every topic, and her cheery disposition began to feel slightly more forced as she battled to keep silence from falling over the dinner table.

All heads turned when Haymitch finally stumbled into the dining cabin, halfway through the duration of the meal. Effie felt herself grow uncomfortable under his presence, but made an attempt to appear pleased. After all, she did have manners. "Ah, Haymitch. _Thank you_ for gracing us with your presence." Sarcasm dripped eloquently off Effie's words, and through the wisps of hair that covered his face, his eyes met Effie's with such a challenging intensity she struggled to keep her composure. He sank himself into a chair, and began to fill his plate.

"Congratulations." His mouth curved into a smile as he faced the tributes. They exchanged confused glances, but quickly returned to their plates. Effie pursed her lips. "This is Muscida and Tom." Haymitch frowned slightly, but remained disinterested in the names of the tributes, and poured himself a drink. Effie stared at Haymitch, widening her eyes to indicate he should make an effort. Aware of her eyes on him, Haymitch purposely avoided her gaze, and selected various dishes for his plate.

"So…got any suggestions?" Tom piped up, his piercing gaze fixed on Haymitch. "Oh here we go." Haymitch mutters, rolling his eyes. From his reaction, Effie gets the impression this is common. His replies are too quick to be thoughtfully considered. "You're our mentor. That's your job. You're supposed to help." Effie turned towards Haymitch as Tom openly confronted him. Haymitch tensed defensively at the attention, and darts his eyes between the tributes, evaluating them.

He knew the girl wouldn't last longer than the duration of a day; he could tell she was from the Merchant class. Those from the Merchant class always fared terribly. But the boy, _Tom_, was fairly well-built, relatively tall, and challenging. He had attitude, and his face was handsome enough to merit interest from the Capitol citizens. He could stand a chance. Haymitch huffed, and dropped his cutlery back onto the plate. "What, you want to know how to kill others?" Haymitch's eyes assessed him. "Wanna know how to murder?" Tom refused to alter his gaze, and Effie swore she saw his nostrils flare. He was no killer. "No. I want to have a fighting chance. A strategy." Haymitch glanced at Effie. "Oh. Well, that's a first." Effie saw Tom's knuckles whiten in anger, and she predicted he was about to make a swipe across the table at Haymitch. She was right: Tom began to raise himself out of his chair, but Effie reacted quickly, and her cheerful tone cut across the silence. "Well, why don't we watch the recaps of the reapings? I'm sure that will help you and Haymitch devise a strategy." Haymitch glared at Effie, but she remained unrelenting. She had to help these tributes somehow, and having Haymitch come up against a tribute was certainly _not_ going to help.

The reapings were fairly standard. District One flaunted a reaped boy of Seventeen: Troy, and a girl of Sixteen, Bronne. Both were bogstandard: strong, heartless, with malice and honour glinting in their eyes as they strode onto the stage and thumped their fists triumphantly. From District Two came Gravston, with the female Enobaria, a ferocious-looking seventeen year-old who showed her glinting teeth at every opportunity. Twelve year olds were drawn from Six and Eight, and the boy from Nine was well-built and muscular, and Tom earmarked him as a threat. The Capitol seal flashed onto the screen, signalling the end of mandatory viewing. Haymitch gave a huff, flicking off the television. "Well, that's enough for one night." Tom gave Haymitch a dirty look, but eagerly left the viewing compartment. Muscida was quick to trail along behind.

….

To Effie's surprise, Haymitch did not try to slip away into his bedroom. Effie sat at the dining table, fidgeting with the dessert cutlery with no intention of eating. Her appetite had left her. Haymitch sauntered in, and poured himself a drink. But he didn't leave. He flopped down into a chair at the end of the table, swirling the ice around in his glass. Effie found his presence slightly comforting, and was glad the confrontational tension from dinner had seemingly diffused. Effie spoke, her voice reduced low to almost a whisper. "These tributes are going to die, Haymitch." Haymitch traced hopelessness in her voice, her eyes downcast towards the cutlery. Haymitch motioned his glass towards her. "Happy Hunger Games." Effie smirked slightly at his sarcasm, but it quickly disappeared. Her eyes reflected a certain desperation, and Haymitch momentarily wondered whether he had a crying escort on his hands. But Haymitch softened. She was only twenty, and for her, this was the biggest challenge she had ever encountered. And there was nobody to help her.

Haymith noisily cleared his throat. "There's a couple of rules you should be aware of." Effie met his glance. "Rules? I did attend Games school, Mr. Abernathy. I think what I need to know about the Games, I do know." Effie rebuked. Her smugness was of no surprise to him. _Exactly what would come from a Capitol girl._ He thought. His piercing blue eyes met hers. "Rule number one. No getting attached to the tributes." Effie grimaced. "Should've told me that earlier", a chuckle cracking her solemn expression. An amused look fell over his glazed eyes. He hadn't expected an escort to be so entertaining. "Rule number two. No interfering with my drinking habits." Effie considered launching a counter-argument, but bit her tongue. "Rule number three. No talking about my Games." The seriousness in his voice made Effie appreciate this was the most important rule, and perhaps the one to stick to. But as soon as the words had left his mouth, she found her mind buzzing with curiosity. Did she remember his Games? Or was she too young? _EscortsAssociated,_ the firm for which all escorts were employed had offered her access to the tape, in order to "get to know the Districts' mentor", or some such nonsense. Effie had refused, not seeing how watching a tape of their Games would help at all. She was now glad she hadn't seen the tape. Silence blanketed the table, but Haymitch didn't make any moves to leave, and Effie was secretly glad.

"Can we work together on this?" She finally said, as he tapped his fingernail against the glass. The words come out of her mouth before she had the opportunity to stop them. But she was desperate. She needs his support in this, because she knows she's not strong enough to go it alone. The _clink_ that resounds from Haymitch's glass finally secedes. "I don't have the answer to that, sweetheart." The nickname catches her off-guard, and she struggles to make sense of his words. Haymitch rises from his chair and takes the glass with him. Effie's breath constricts in her throat. She desperately wants this to work. She wants to give District Twelve a fighting chance. "Please, Haymitch?" He momentarily stops in the doorway, and shifts his head to one side to indicate he is replying to her, despite the fact that nobody else is around to hear it. "Time will tell".

Effie found herself tossing and turning in bed that night, as her mind feverishly analysed the conversation with Haymitch. She couldn't deny, no matter how mortified the thought made her, that she had let her guard down in front of him. Not her whole guard, but a precious fragment of it. She knew very well why. Because she hadn't anticipated how hard this would be. To ship these children to their deaths. To _chaperone_ them on their final journey. To carry out the Capitol's dirty business. To make it look glamorous, _fashionable_ even. The thought riddled and rooted itself within her, and the guilt welled in her stomach to the point where she thought she might throw up. She needed to change her tactic. She needed to keep up her cheery cover. For the tributes. Because, after all, the best she can do is try to help them. And she hoped that Haymitch would be sober enough to do the same.

….

**Thanks you reading!**

**While I write this story for me, I post it for the satisfaction of others. No point posting if you're not interested, is there? Let me know if you're keen for a chapter three anytime soon. :)**


	3. The Compulsory Collaboration

**Sorry for the wait! I have heaps of narrative complete that I struggled to divide into suitable chapters. But alas, there is more ready to be posted very soon. To address RonaldGarcia91's question regarding the length of this fic: I plan to address every Games (through to the 75****th****, and further maybe?), with a bunch of small scenes, much like I have been doing. Sure, they won't always be as meaty and drawn-out as these Games, the 62****nd****, but I need some foundations.**

**Thanks for staying tuned, and special thanks for those who comment. Seriously, if you have an idea, or some criticism, anything really; just shoot me a review or something. I'm keen to consider anything.**

**Disclaimer: The characters and settings portrayed in this work of fiction belong to Suzanne Collins. **

The days that followed allowed Effie to fall into a more comfortable rhythm. The initial standoffish awkwardness between the escort and mentor had begun to dissipate, but she still remained largely unaware of where she stood. So, she decided after a long stint of contemplation to treat him no different to the tributes. Unfortunately for Haymitch, this meant an incessant reminder of manners and politeness, dress codes and appropriate topics of conversation. Effie was a quick learner, and easily adapted to the fact that Haymitch needed more of her help than the tributes did.

It was eight o'clock in the morning, and according to Effie's schedule, it was time to rouse the occupants of the train. With quick raps and calls of the importance of the _big, big day_, the train gradually began to communally rise. But once Effie reached Haymitch's door, she hesitated. Was it her responsibility to wake him? She debated inwardly, before deciding that she may as well wake everybody. She gave a strong rap on his door, and chimed her unnervingly happy greeting in accompaniment. But unlike the others, she was met with no response. She waited, tapping her foot impatiently. He was messing with her incredibly tight schedule, and she wouldn't allow it. She was not going to have her schedule interrupted by the likes of Haymitch.

Effie gave a frustrated huff, and turned the brass knob to slide the door open. The slamming caused Haymitch to jump into consciousness, and he snapped his eyes open groggily, in order to see a frustrated Effie approaching him. He briefly wondered if he was dreaming, but her annoying voice and slamming of doors was unlikely to be conjured in the realms of his subconscious. He let his eyes close back over, and tried to block out Effie's dulcet tones. Effie rested her hands on her hips and evaluated Haymitch. She wanted to scold him, but her eyes wandered. The sheet had wandered during the course of the night, allowing Effie to view the taut muscles of his stomach. Effie forced herself to pry her eyes away. _Focus, Effie! _

"Haymitch! Come on!" She bellowed. But he refused to budge. Haymitch emitted a groan of disapproval and turned his head away. "Seriously, Haymitch. We have such a big day ahead of us!" Haymitch brought himself up on his elbows to look at her. "Seriously, _Effie_, it's eight in the morning! Give me a chance!" He bellowed, mocking her tone. He allowed himself to fall back onto the mattress. Effie grew more enraged by the second, and she was determined to get him up. "Haymitch!" She shrilled, "I have a job to do, _you_ have a job to do…" Haymitch mumbled something into the pillow, and Effie got the impression it was not meant for her to hear. "Ugh, fine!" Effie grabbed the sheet and bunched it roughly in her hand, and was just about to throw it off when Haymitch grabbed her hand with a strength that rendered her actions mute. "You don't want to be doing that." Haymitch mumbled, turning towards her and cocking his head to the side. Effie watched as a grin formed under the wisps of hair that obstructed his face. "Because, sweetheart, I'm not wearing anything under this sheet." Haymitch watched as her expression transformed from anger to embarrassment to horror. She pulled her hand back and her cheeks burned profusely. She spun on her heel and left Haymitch alone, without saying another word. Haymitch snickered to himself and fell back against the mattress. Yes, he had won this time. But he didn't think that Effie was going to back away from a challenge.

….

In a weird, twisted way that Haymitch isn't quite able to understand, he's mildly relieved to reach the Capitol. It offers few pleasures: an overabundance of alcohol, food richer than you could possibly imagine, and company. Company came to Haymitch in two forms: there was _pleasurable_ company, the type he picked up in bars and at Capitol functions. Then there was the other type: the simple company of others that kept him sane. Something he couldn't get in District 12. It made the Games easier to swallow. Even Effie's company was strangely welcoming from the loneliness of his existence, even if she was always in his ear.

Haymitch can hear her clanking heels approach down the corridor. His eyes are closed, but he cringes at the sound and wishes that she won't come and disturb him. From the brief experience he's had with this new escort, he's gained the impression that _solitude_ was not something Effie had factored into his part of her painful schedule. Her voice is harsh on his ears, a demanding tone that never seems to let up. "Haymitch, _what_ are you doing?" He snaps an eye open to see her defensive posture at his open door. "What does it look like?" Effie gives a frustrated huff. "You are aware that you have a schedule to follow-" Haymitch is quick to interject. "I am, actually. You haven't stopped _harking_ on about it all day." But she doesn't leave him alone. That's one thing he's learnt about her. She's determined. She's challenging. And she has no intentions of leaving him in peace. "There's a reason for that, Haymitch. It's because you have commitments!" Haymitch rolls his eyes. He's comfortable here, sprawled unceremoniously out on the bed. But it's irritating to hear her jabber on insistently, and he's getting desperate to get her off his back.

He heaves a sigh and pulls himself to sit on the edge of the bed. "Look, sweetheart, I've done this longer than you. I know when I have to prepare for commitments without you constantly reminding me."

Effie decides to abandon decency and enter his room uninvited, making her way towards the wardrobe and pushing the doors back. "Well, the tribute parade is a momentous occasion, and you need to look your best." Haymitch sniggered and fell back against the bed. Effie scanned through the clothes hung neatly in the wardrobe; selecting ones she sensed wouldn't be met by too much hostility on Haymitch's part. Not too flamboyant, but enough to pass as respectable within a Capitol scene. "Tribute parade. That's sure to be a surprise." Haymitch lets his rant lull, but Effie listens nonetheless. "If I could bet, I'd bet coalminer costumes. That'd be a first." Effie knows he's being sarcastic. District Twelve was always coalminers, she'd looked over it in her tedious preparation for this job. But that was mostly due to the fact that 12 never received a decent stylist. Twelve was the district everyone wanted to bypass, but most had to start somewhere.

"Look Haymitch, I agree that the stylists for Twelve lack artistic flair…" "Artistic flair! That's what you call it?!" Effie smooths the selected attire and tosses it towards Haymitch, who catches it. "I'd appreciate some effort." Effie motions with her hands in what Haymitch suspects is a great reservation not to chew his ear off. "Please. Just smile, make small-talk, look presentable…and don't get overly-intoxicated." Haymitch meets her gaze. "I think the word you're looking for is _drunk"_ Effie gives a slight smile. Haymitch fiddles with the shirt Effie selected, and expresses his intense displeasure by sticking his tongue out at the garment. "Please?" Effie ventures tentatively. She desperately hoped this softly-softly approach would wear him out. Haymitch rolls his eyes. "Fine!" He moans. Effie's gives a jump of excitement, and claps her hands together. "Thank you, thank you!" Haymitch watches her display in amusement, before she finally realises that she's outstayed her welcome, and skitters out.

….

Caesar 's voice thumps through the speakers, jovially announcing the commencement of the 62nd Tribute Parade. "You know, my good man, that district of yours might fare better if they weren't so predictable!" It's a Capitol man, dressed in bright green pants and suspenders to match. Effie casts Haymitch a warning. He hasn't stopped barking in his ear all evening. The parade was usually terrible, but this particular year was testing Haymitch's patience.

Haymitch is tempted to assault him, _to teach him a lesson_, but if he does, he'll never hear the end of it from Effie. "Oh?" The man takes another sip from his glass. "It's just, they're always the same. They wear the same costume_ every year_. It's maddening!" The man gives a hearty laugh. "And what's more, they are always such skinny things, never any competition. It was just the other day I was talking to a man who said that District Twelve's tributes on average survived until only the second day of competition! That's the worst odds of all the Districts put together!" Effie offers a polite laugh, hoping it will end his rant. She sees Haymitch cringe and his eyes darken, giving him a morbid appearance, but he doesn't throw a punch, or offer a scathing insult. He dwells inwardly instead, and for a moment Effie regrets the decision to keep him calm. If anyone deserved Haymitchs' fire, it was the awfully dressed man in front of her.

It's late by the time Effie and Haymitch bring the tributes back to the penthouse. There's not much be said. The event was as to be expected. District 12 was as unnoticed as ever. But Haymitch was true to his word. He was amiable and cautious and didn't take personal offence at the ill comments from the ignorant Capitol citizens that permeated the parade. Effie was grateful. She bid the children goodnight, even stroking Tom's cheek affectionately. The maternal instinct in her wanted to desperately address the fear and desperation that she sensed in their glances, but deep in her heart knew that she could not. At times it was difficult to prevent her eyes from welling up with tears, desperately wanting to protect them.

"You know, an avox could do that for you." Effie remarks as she meets Haymitch in the kitchen area. But Effie knows full well he prefers to get his own drinks. He despises having someone wait upon him. He rejects the stylist and avoids having an avox fetch whatever he requires. She doesn't fully understand his philosophy, but she respects it nonetheless. His nuances are none of her concern. "I know. That's what they're for, yes?" Haymitch rests his elbows on the counter and grimaces as the liquid hit the back of her throat. Effie gives a slight smile. "I wanted to thank you. For not punching that man to the ground, or shoving your fist in his mouth, or whatever it is you would have done." Effie turns to face him. She's genuine when she's alone with him. She's sincere and honest. Something she would never have expected from the Capitol born and raised. But it comforts him. "What wonderful ideas. I'll put them in reserve."

"You know," Effie starts with a trace of cheek in her tone that catches Haymitch's attention. "I almost regretted your restraint back there." Haymitch struggles not to bring up his drink, and Effie breaks her composure too, cracking into a grin. "You don't say?" Effie rests her back against the counter and turns to face him. "Yes! That man was foul. I would have slapped him myself if I didn't have a reputation to uphold." Haymitch doesn't reply. He just watches her. She's removed a fair portion of her cosmetics, and she looks almost…normal. There's an absence of lipstick on her lips, and for the first time since he met her, he can see the shape of her lips unobscured: the plump bottom lip that parts from the upper, the colour somewhere between muted pink and red, the way when she smiles with her mouth closed, the corners of her lips turn downwards…

Haymitch meets her eye. She hasn't noticed his staring, thankfully. She's busy mapping his face to memory herself. Making her retention of him so clear in her mind she could conjure the image with startling precision with her eyes shut.

And in that moment, there is a mutual understanding and respect shared between Effie and Haymitch. There is no more awkwardness. There is only a silence. An interlude. That's what it is. For come morning light, their pretences will resume. On impulse, Effie raises her hand to his face, securing an unruly strand of blonde hair back behind his ear. She doesn't linger to consider consequences. She doesn't let him see her involuntary shiver at the sensation that strikes her. "Get some sleep tonight, Haymitch."

**I've kept this on the shorter side, because the next one's lengthy.  
**

**Thanks a bunch for sticking around. It might be a while before I get the next few chapters up, as university slowly sucks up all my precious time. But I'll try to have it up within the next fortnight. Leave a review if you'd like it sooner.**

**Oh, things will begin to heat up between Effie and Haymitch; probably within the following chapter, depending on where I cut it. You are forewarned *winks seductively.**

**That's all, folks.**


	4. The Precious Pretences

**Welcome, welcome. It's been a while. I've had all amounts of trouble finding a good balance between Games-centric stuff and Haymitch/Effie-centric stuff, so I hope this will do. I had hoped to finish the 62****nd**** Hunger Games in this chapter, but that didn't happen; so there will be one more instalment of the 62****nd**** after this. **

**As always, thanks for reading!**

**Disclaimer: Get real.**

…**.**

Effie rubs at Haymitch's shoulder brazenly as he comes to. "Come on, Haymitch. It's going to be a big, big day!" Her cheerful tone breaks the peaceful silence that he longs to return to. But he's gotten used to Effie's annoying wake-up calls, and swipes her away as he sits up, rubbing his eyes against his palm to clear his vision. "Fantastic." He grumbles. Haymitch wonders absently whether Effie ever gets any sleep: when she wakes him she's always already prepped for the day, which Haymitch is sure must be a very time-consuming process. She shoots him a look, which tells him he's being rude, but he dismisses it. "Today I need effort on your part, Haymitch."

Haymitch scratches at his jaw before he focuses on her last statement. "Need my effort? What the hell have I been doing for the past week?" Effie bites back a scathing retort and makes a concerted effort to answer coolly. "Today is an opportunity to mingle at the social gatherings, get Tom and Muscida's names out there, secure some sponsors!"

Haymitch can't remember the last time he actually did that. Only a few times had a tribute shown any potential that he bothered. He limited his social appearances to parties with the other victors that he was mandated to attend, Games-specific compulsory events, and nights out with Chaff, going between various bars. He didn't think that the likes of the tributes this year should merit a change to that.

"The previous escort never made me attend those." Haymitch replied with casual indifference that was sure to infuriate Effie. "Well, I'm the escort now, and you're going. That's that." Haymitch grimaced at the prospect, wondering how she planned to set that in motion. "You have to keep up appearances." Haymitch rolled his eyes, collapsing back against the mattress in irritation. "I don't, actually."

Effie tossed suitable attire in Haymitch's direction. She was getting so used to selecting his clothes she'd essentially become his stylist. "You're going to go, you're going to drill the names of District Twelve's tributes into their heads until they place wagers and agree to be sponsors, just to get you off their back." Haymitch grinned. "I think that job is much better suited to you, sweetheart." He said, pulling the shirt over his arms and began attempting to secure the tediously small buttons.

"I'm coming with you, just to make sure you don't go quitting on this." Effie watched as he fidgeted hopelessly with his shirt, putting her on edge. She felt compelled to assist him. _Ugh, he's utterly hopeless!_ Effie slapped his hands away as she applied her nimble fingers to his shirt. Haymitch didn't bother to resist, his only action to raise his hands in defeat and lean back to allow her more room to work.

She's far more adept at this than he is, and her hands work with such precision that Haymitch wonders how she's become so skilled, _how many lovers she's dressed the morning after_. He grows uncomfortable at the thought, dismissing it eagerly. But he can't help to overlook the fact that she's much closer than he'd like. He tries to focus on her fingers adeptly working on her buttons, but her proximity tempts his eyes to wander over her: taking in everything here the dips and curves of her body, the slight dimples of her cheeks, the scant dusting of freckles that wander up her arm…

Haymitch is pulled out of his trance when her cool fingers brush softly against the skin of his bare chest. He figures it was purely incidental, but it sends a jolt through him; stirring something deep inside of him that he's determined not to define. Haymitch can tell she feels slightly awkward about the accident, and for a moment he thinks she's going to mumble an apology. But her eyes just flicker instantaneously up to his, and timidly return to his buttons, a blush starting to redden her cheeks.

Haymitch begins to realise the benefits of such a position when his eye-level falls directly in line with Effie's rather low-cut neckline, allowing Haymitch a wonderful glimpse of her cleavage as she gradually bends over a little more. Swiftly, Haymitch desperately darts his eyes around to avoid it. He wants to look; it's the most enticing sight: that creamy skin and those curves that are just _begging_ to be touched…

Haymitch pulls himself out of his thoughts, and swallows hard. _I shouldn't be having these thoughts_. He knows full well she's off limits. _Get a grip. _But he is sure she's inched herself closer than when she started at the lowest button. Her fidgeting is sending his mind into overdrive, and he's desperate for her to hurry up: he needs to cool down. But her fingers linger on the final buttons for much longer than necessary, testing the limits of his composure.

Tension surrounds them: so thick it feels like fog, and it's so suffocating he can barely get enough air into his lungs. He stays quiet; all he can hear is Effie's fingers brushing lightly against his shirt and the steady thrumming of a heartbeat: his or hers, he can't tell. Her fingers are emitting a heat that sears him to the bone. It's just warmth, really. But it's sure as hell affecting him. Haymitch gains the impression that time has grounded to a halt, and the final button is secured with a barely audible _pop _as it is slipped into the confine.

Haymitch stills. He's not sure where this is going, and all he's certain of is how their position is almost…intimate. Haymitch dares to allow his eyes to wander dangerously up to her lips. Plump and dark; a temptation if there ever was one. Haymitch begins to wonder what it would be like to have those lips on his, to feel their warmth and their captivating pressure that was sure to have him begging for more-

Effie subconsciously licks her lips. It's a nervous habit of hers, but it reveals more about how Effie feels about this compromising position than she'd like to disclose. Her eyes flicker back up to his. She notices something she's overlooked, or perhaps just something that she'd never see from a safe distance away: his eyes contain the tiniest flecks of grey in their blue depths. It's curious, she's usually not this observant towards anyone to notice this kind of minute detail. She's riveted by the sight; suddenly intensely aware that she's been staring for a second too long, and is struck by how close they'd gotten, and how it's become very hard to breathe-

Haymitch clears his throat abruptly and the tension dissipates, and is swiftly to be replaced by a stifling awkwardness. Effie jumps back, allowing Haymitch to sit back up. It's as if they've been pulled apart by being caught by an unwelcome intruder. But it's not that kind of danger. It's one much less obvious, much more internal, one neither would ever willingly acknowledge. And it's simply left at that.

Effie releases a breath she wasn't aware she had been holding, taking several steps backwards to put as much distance between them as possible. She can hardly meet his eye, she's embarrassed and confused and her mind is reeling. Effie feels as though they've been interrupted, but was there anything to interrupt, or was it all in her head?

She picks up a tie and tosses it in his general direction, determined to act as casual as possible. _He can figure that one out for himself_.

"Uh, be ready in ten minutes. They begin training today, so we will take them down and go to the venue from there. Is that okay?" Haymitch forces himself to respond as quickly as possible. "That's fine." Haymitch stammered. With that, she turns and leaves, as quickly as her heels will carry her.

Effie leans against the wall of the corridor. She needs a moment to figure out what the _hell_ just happened. She closes her eyes, releasing a shaky breath. For now, she'd rather just forget it. She can analyse it later, in solitude. For now, she has a duty to apply herself to her schedule, her tasks. Her final thoughts before she manages to fully compose herself is of how very, very glad she is they won't have to ride the lift alone together.

….

Effie can't help but notice how long it is before Haymitch finally emerges for breakfast. But he's as casual and collected as ever, and Effie's grateful.

It's midway through the meal when Haymitch finally decides to provide some input into the conversation. "Right, you'll have three days of training, and you'll be in the company of all the other tributes." He pauses, and turns to Tom, making sure the boy is paying attention to his words, because his advice is never repeated. "Take it as an opportunity to work out the strengths of the others. It should give you some idea of what strategy they will be likely to use in the arena." Tom gives a nod of assent. "Pay special attention to the Careers."

"The Careers?" Tom questions, his brow slightly furrowed. Of course, he's familiar with the strong, fierce tributes that win almost every Game, but he's never heard the term before. "From District One and Two. They receive special training for the Games." Effie notes that Tom eases off his constant attack on his food. "What have they got to do with me?"

"They often watch the other tributes, seeing if there's any threats. Make sure you don't pinpoint yourself as one. If you're a target, they'll pick you off first."

Effie listens, paying careful attention. Haymitch is extremely knowledgeable; he knows this game inside out. She's mildly surprised, thinking prior that he was a lost cause, and inwardly retracts some of her first judgements about him that had made her want to change Districts as quickly as possible.

"Instead, take the time to learn as much as possible. Pick up weapons, but don't focus on just one in particular. Pay attention to the survival skills. They're just as vital as combat skills. Run on the track with some others, but never go full pelt. Don't let the others see how fast you are."

….

It was mid-morning by the time Effie and Haymitch arrived at one of the innumerable Games gatherings. Effie noted it was filled with potential sponsors. "Look for the ones with gold bracelets or cufflinks." Haymitch nodded, evaluating the guests, picking the ones he'd corner. "Be back here in by Twelve. There are some other venues I've scheduled."

Haymitch cringed at the thought. "Remind me again why I agreed to this?" Turning to her, Haymitch gave Effie an almost pleading look. Effie responded by giving him a light push, and watched for a few moments as he trapped his first victim, before she began circling herself.

Amongst all the chaos over the past few days, Effie forgot it was her first time securing sponsors. She was apprehensive as she mingled, but determined. This was her job, after all. But as successful as she was at veering conversations to the tributes, nobody was very interested once they found out what district she represented. They would smirk, or worse, laugh at the mention of the district. She grew irritated, and as she thanked one particularly disinterested older man for his time, took a drink from a passing avox and scoured the room dejectedly. _Not a single sponsor in over an hour. _She was ignorant to exactly how long it should be before a sponsor was secured, her time at Games school had failed on that point. Nevertheless, she was certain an hour was more than enough time.

Her eyes searched through the crowd. Haymitch was in conversation with a middle aged man adorned in a bulky fur coat with multi-coloured talons. Effie thought the combination of such a coat with those mustard-coloured pants was highly illegal in a fashion-sense, but Haymitch seemed to be making headway, so she was in no position to judge.

And he continued to make headway at the next venue, and the one following that. Effie listed the names and amounts the newly-acquired sponsors were willing to contribute. The list was scant: fewer than ten, but it was _something_, and it had to be better than nothing. This particular venue was a garden party, and was by far Effie's favourite. Lanterns were strung high in the manicured hedges arranged in various animal forms emitted a glorious ambience. The air was fresh as evening began to take over as afternoon slipped away with the sun. The guests were bubbly and slightly-intoxicated, something Effie found exceedingly helpful to secure sponsors.

Haymitch had tired of shoving the names "Tom" and "Muscida" down the throats of anyone willing to listen, and now was convinced his efforts for the day were now fully expended. He approached Effie, handing her a sparkling drink as he took a sip of another. Effie eyed the drink suspiciously, and Haymitch responded by swinging it in front of her face. She took it, deciding she deserved it.

"Thank you, Haymitch" she said finally, breaking the silence that had fallen over them. "I appreciate it." Haymitch scoffed. "You'd better!" Effie thought about stressing the sincerity of her statement, but decided that was probably just his way of responding to thanks. Effie smiled, proud of her achievement of successfully getting Haymitch out securing sponsors.

"You have to admit, we make a good team, Haymitch." She glanced his way, eager to watch his response. "Put it this way, sweetheart. There's absolutely no way you could have done this without me." He replied, motioning to the notepad listing the sponsors. He'd done well and proven his worth, not just to the tributes, but to Effie. Yet, she was still mildly annoyed Haymitch had been so successful, while she had failed so dismally. "I just haven't got the hang of it yet…" Effie muttered, trying not to let her defensiveness show in her tone. Haymitch sniggered slightly. "Is that what it was?"

"Yes. I'm sure I'll have more success next time around." She stipulated, but found her heart was not really in agreement. She'd done terribly. "Oh sure." Haymitch replied, nodding enthusiastically as he fetched himself another drink. "Is that a challenge?" Effie asked, quirking an eyebrow.

Haymitch couldn't remember the last time he'd turned down a challenge. Whether it be a bet, a fight, or an argument; he found himself compelled to never admit defeat. He always stood up to the challenge. "There's no way I'm backing away from a challenge I am going to so easily win."

Effie narrowed her eyes in annoyance. "You're on."

Haymitch gave a huff as the sky began to turn dark blue. It was late, and he'd been out obeying Effie's orders all day. "Can we go yet?" Haymitch pleaded, turning desperately to Effie. "Yes. Yes we can."

….

Time passes easily over the next few days. Haymitch and Effie interrogate Tom about every aspect of training, and he elaborates with an acquired patience about each day's activities. Running 50 metres is a compulsory training exercise, and Tom was allocated to the second group of boys, comprising of the Careers, 9, 7, and Erain, a quick-witted, stocky sixteen year-old from 8.

"And who were the fastest?" Haymitch asked over dinner one night. "The Careers, Erain from 8, and me." Haymitch nodded. "Well that's wonderful!" Chirped Effie, clapping her hands together. "Perhaps more importantly, could you have beaten them?" Haymitch interjected quickly. Tom gave Haymitch a quizzical look. "Of course!"_ That attitude will be the death of him, _thought Haymitch.

Tom and Muscida had followed Haymitch's instructions, and by the time group training had concluded, they knew basic knots, could identify edible plants, throw a spear, and perhaps most importantly, had a good knowledge of each tributes' strengths. Effie had even written a list of each tributes' strengths, and quizzed them over it endlessly, determined that he should commit it to memory. "You won't have me taking notes in the arena!" Effie would chime, much to Tom's irritation.

It wasn't the type of assistance Haymitch provided, with his knowledge and his scheming tendencies. But Effie subdued the fear that fell over the penthouse that increased with every passing hour. Yet, it kept Effie awake at night: each hour ticked away with frightful haste. She desperately wanted to control it, to draw it to a close, to escape. To have even the slightest possibility of a different ending. Perhaps that was why she wanted them to have a chance, to offer at least one of them the opportunity to live. _To survive. _To have what she thought they should be entitled to: the chance at a life. At happiness. At everything that everyone seemed to take for granted. It made her feel guilty at moments when she thought absentmindedly about the future. About whether next year Haymitch would be any easier to deal with. About whether her job as escort would finally get her mother off her case. Anything that slipped so easily into her consciousness at unusual moments.

….

The rays cast by the brilliant sun filtered through the windows of the Penthouse, creating a glow of mellow yellow light into the viewing room. The private sessions had concluded, and it was time for the scores to be revealed. Effie held her notepad at the ready, making a column to slot in the scores for each tribute. Haymitch rolled his eyes, but refrained from offering up a snarky remark, since they were in the company of the tributes. Presenter Caesar Flickerman appeared on the screen, accompanied by a grid of profile images of the 24 tributes. Each was enlarged as Ceasar revealed the corresponding score.

As anticipated, the Careers scored highly: with 9s and 10s. But the majority of scores were dismal: with few managing to scrape over 7. Tom paid close attention to the ones he'd been interested in, his eyes glued to the screen. Erain conjured a 9, much to Effie's surprise. District 8 had done poorly over previous years. Tom furrowed his brow, but couldn't bring to mind anything he'd seen Erain do to merit a score on par with the Careers. District 10 pulls fives, 11 faring even worse, with fours. And then comes District Twelve. Haymitch casts a warning glance at Effie as she unconsciously holds her breath.

Muscida scores a respectable 6. It's a score she deserves: she has no particular talent or skill, but she's paid attention during training and is one of the few that's not malnourished. "Tom Weatheringstone", Caesar announces. His picture is enlarged on the screen, and a number flashes around it. It's an 8. Tom cracks a smile at the figure: he's happy with the accomplishment.

Effie is quick to envelop Tom in a tight hug, telling him how wonderful it is to have such a score, and how it's sure to attract sponsors. But Effie catches Haymitch's eye over Tom's shoulder, her eyes genuine and appreciative as she silently whispers the words "Thank you." She knows this score would not have been possible without him. Haymitch nods slightly, motioning his glass back towards her.

….

Effie listens as sounds of distress begin to reach her ears. She knows its Haymitch; she's heard him before. They torment him every time he closes his eyes for longer than a few seconds. Moans, dreadful cries and whimpers are painfully released at intermittent intervals as the night slowly continues on. Usually, his tossing's and turnings and thrashes cease, when he wakes up in a cold sweat. She hears the sigh of relief, the groan of tiredness, the _chink _as he pulls a bottle from the bedside table. But tonight, he's not waking. He is stuck somewhere he can't escape.

Effie listens intently, turning over to glance at the clock. _02:21. _She grows anxious, knowing he sleeps with a blade, and worried he might endanger himself if this continues for much longer. Then there's the tributes to think about. They deserve their sleep more than anybody, and she'd feel awful if her lack of action compromised them. Eventually she pulls back the covers, pushing them aside eagerly as she pulls a gown over her shoulders to suffice at being decent. She searches for the key to his room she had made - _a precautionary measure_, she had justified at the time. And she was ever grateful she had done so.

Her fingers clasp the handle, but still before she twists it. There's no protocol on this. She's not within her rights to enter his room at night, but between waking him and dressing him, it has become almost routine. Deciding it's justified enough to satisfy, she takes a deep breath and pushes the door open.

"Haymitch!" She calls, her voice somewhere between a whisper and a hiss. She tentatively touches his shoulder, hoping it will rouse him. "Haymitch! Please Haymitch..."

Finally, _finally_, he stirs; jolting suddenly and bolting upright. Effie jumps, but keeps her grip on his arms firm enough to let him know he's not dreaming anymore, hoping he won't extract his knife and brandish it carelessly.

He's drenched in sweat; Effie can feel it under her fingertips. "It's me." She whispers. His brows furrows in confusion as he slowly realises he's no longer in danger. Haymitch dips his head as he desperately attempts to steady his ragged breathing, feeling slightly ashamed of the way his chest heaves desperately to get enough air.

Effie brings her hand up to his forehead; wiping away the sheen of sweat and tucking his unruly hair safely back behind his ear, her fingers lingering as she traces the length of the strands. He shuts his eyes tightly: he's a nervous wreck, really. His hands are shaking faintly; and so he quickly secures them into fists so she won't notice.

Effie doesn't know what she should say to comfort him, so she decides to say nothing at all, falling into silence. The only sound that remains is Haymitch's irregular breathing pattern, and Effie listens carefully as it gradually evens out. His head falls lightly against her shoulder, and Effie brings her arm around him and lets her fingertips trace his jaw absentmindedly.

Haymitch is grateful the room is plunged into darkness, because he feels shameful enough at the situation. Living alone with no one nearby had many advantages, principally including the fact that he didn't bother anyone with his nightmares. He's a grown man, and he shouldn't be acting as such. Waking people up, especially. But her presence is strangely soothing in the night hours, unlike the irritation that she brings during the hours of light.

Her fingernails drag softly along his jawline, stroking back and forth endlessly. Every time her fingers reach his chin, he hopes it won't be the last. The pain subsides as time passes, and his nightmare begins to feel like a distant memory as he loses himself in the sensation. Effie begins to grow uncomfortable at the position. Despite the fact there's no light around to illuminate it, his chest is bare and her hands aren't exactly to herself. She wonders if she should leave him and go back to her room – her muscles are stiffening from being perched on the edge of his bed. She tries to stretch her back, but Haymitch is content resting against her shoulder, and she doesn't want to disturb him.

As if sensing her growing discomfort, Haymitch shifts a little against her. "Stay." He mutters, so softly she's not sure he said it. That's all he says. That's all he needs to stay. Effie can think of a thousand reasons why she shouldn't, but she can't find it in herself to deny him. She can see he's in pain – a pain she knows she'll never fully understand.

"Remove that knife first." She commands sternly. He nods against her shoulder, fumbling beneath the sheet before his fingers enclose around its base, tossing it onto the floor. Haymitch shifts to the side, and pulls back the covers to allows her in. Effie slips between the sheets; bring it up around her chest. _This is so improper…_

Effie has a moment of panic when she realises he might not be clothed beneath those sheets, a thought that sends her mind reeling with embarrassment and slight curiosity. But her alarm is quelled when he accidentally brushes against her knee, and she can feel fabric rather than bare skin. _Thank god._

"Sorry" Haymitch mutters quickly, as he shift uncomfortably to make sure he doesn't touch her again. She can feel the heat emanating from his body, and desperately feels a dark urge to be closer. But she doesn't want to push it. "It's okay." She whispers back, rolling onto her side and daring to move slightly closer. She can't see much, but through the faint illumination cast by a distant moon, she can make out he's still on his back.

Timidly, Effie feels around for him, coming into contact with what she assumes is his stomach. His muscles flutter slightly under her touch, and she can hear his breath hitch ever so slightly. Haymitch tenses as her fingers cascade along the broad expanse of skin, eventually ghosting over the scarred, raised skin of a wound never fully healed. Haymitch squeezes his eyes shut as her fingers immediately still, afraid she would be repulsed by it.

Mortified and humiliated by her boldness, Effie immediately retracts her hand, feeling heat radiating off her cheeks as embarrassment sets in. "I'm so sorry" she apologises, but Haymitch catches her hand as she hastily begins to retract it. "Does it offend you?"

Effie's mind turns over as she realises how insensitive she must have seemed. "No! I just-" Effie stumbles blindly over her words, failing to make a quick recovery. Haymitch releases a breath he wasn't aware he had been holding; relieved she didn't run a mile. Aware that he is still holding her hand captive, Haymitch tentatively draws it back to it's last position over his scar.

She takes it as a go-ahead, her fingers very slowly running over the span, feeling the distressed, jagged texture that was so in contrast with the smooth skin just below. Her fingers meandered over the wound, revelling in the fact he had let him touch it. She imagined this was a privilege, to be allowed access into his past, even if it was just a glimpse. Haymitch gave a jump of discomfort as Effie passed over the deeper fragment, indicating that it was still sensitive. _Even after all these years._

"It's never fully healed..." Haymitch offhands as casually as he can muster. Effie nods slightly, wondering if she should stop. But Haymitch has softened slightly to her touch, and so she decides to follow her instinct. She wriggles a bit closer to him until her body is lightly pushed up against his side. Effie raises her head to catch his eyes, a silent question asking whether this is allowed. But it's too dark to make anything out.

Haymitch swallows harshly, trying desperately to remain focused. But all he can concentrate on is how exquisite it feels to have her so close. Her warmth is inviting, and as she leans more confidently against him, he feels his insides melt. It's comforting. Her head rests against the crook of his shoulder, and Haymitch can smell the faint aromas of her presence. The natural smell of _her_ has mingled deliciously with a smell he can't identify; it's probably something synthetic and not natural, but the scent is rather intoxicating. As he inches a little closer, he can establish it's likely some shampoo. But it's not one of the programmable ones in the showers of the Penthouse. It's much sweeter than that.

Effie lets out a sigh of contentment, her hand resting against his bare chest. Haymitch is sure she can feel his heartbeat, and the awareness forces him to try and slow it's pace into something a little more regular.

If he weren't to mentally exhausted; he'd probably find himself getting incredibly aroused. But with his demons only just beginning to fade into the background, all he can concentrate on is Effie's even breaths and the incredible feeling of having her close. It's a sensation that makes him rather hazy. It's more than comforting, it's more than pleasure. His senses drink in her company as he begins to drift off, giving his mind something pleasant to focus on.

…

Caesar's voice echoes around the stillness of the Penthouse. It's eerily quiet without the presence of the tributes, but the constant playback of the television has provided a form of respite in their place. Effie grows increasingly restless. It's 9 o'clock, and Caesar's over-positive voice excitedly announces that there is under an hour before the final countdown minute. Effie hadn't bothered to schedule the day tightly, it was simply reserved for watching the Games, making sure Haymitch stayed relatively sober; for the off-change they should need to make an emergency sponsor scout. But that has left time plentiful in Effie's hands. Time that allows her mind to stray. She's emotional, she can tell that much. But Effie isn't sure what she's feeling. There's a lump in her throat that's become increasingly hard to remove. Is she guilty, or just nervous?

Caesar and Claudius in their brightly-coloured hair that reminds Effie of cotton candy flavours, give the final evaluation of the tributes; including the final odds for each contestant and the bets according to the largest betting company in the Capitol, _GamesBet_. District 12 is given first. Muscida's odds are a dismal 28-1, but Tom's odds are fixed at 7-1, enough to rival the Careers odds, which range from 3-1 to 6-1. This fills Effie with hope. She's absolutely thrilled that they have a tribute in the running rivalling the Careers.

Haymitch slumps himself down on the sofa next to her. Effie can't contain her vast jumble of emotions, wriggling incessantly at the edge of the seat. "Isn't that fantastic? His odds rival the Careers!" Haymitch gazes back to her. He's not overjoyed. He's been through this eleven times before. _Eleven._ That makes twenty-two tributes he's lost. But Effie doesn't seem to realise the implications. She's too excited and buzzing with anticipation to think about the inevitable possibility that she will be witnessing 23 deaths. Haymitch finds himself sour. He knows she's ignorant and naiive towards the Games, but he does acknowledge that it's her very first year. And that's about the only thing that keeps him from boiling into a fury. "The odds are in his favour!" Effie chirps. Haymitch knows this is not exactly true. In his opinion, the odds are not in anyone's favour. But he doesn't see the point in enlightening her. She will find that out for herself soon enough.

It's time. _**Ladies and Gentlemen, it's time to get excited! Take your seats, grab your drinks, and let the 62**__**nd**__** Hunger Games…BEGIN!**_ The tributes emerge from the tubes, and Effie frantically searches to locate Tom and Muscida. She spots Tom first. He's just as focused and rigid as he appeared at the Reaping. He's sporting that same hardened gaze Effie's seen etched onto his face at crucial moments. As soon as he adjusts to the harsh assault of sunlight, he puts into practice the strategy Haymitch devised for making the most of the 60 seconds.

"_You've got sixty seconds. You need to decide in that time your strategy." Tom gives a nod in agreement. Haymitch pauses to take a swig of the whiskey resting in a glass tumbler. "There's almost certain to be all sorts of stuff in front of you. Things of the most value, like weapons, will be further towards the inner-Cornucopia. There will be other things further out, like backpacks, tents, traps, medicines, sleeping bags, you name it." Haymitch can almost see the wheels turning in Tom's brain. Deciding what he wants. "If you want my advice," starts Haymitch, "go for something of lesser value, like a backpack or something that's placed further out. But then look for a weapon, like a knife or a spear. Look at where the others are. If it's safe to get to, grab it." Haymitch pauses while Tom registers this. "Then, you run to high ground or somewhere you can't be seen." _

Tom evaluates the scene. On his left is the girl from 6 – she's twelve, and looks uneasily at Tom. _Not a threat_. On his right is the boy from 8, Erain. Tom reflects back to the notes Effie devised. _Stocky, quick-witted._ He's fast, too. Tom remembers racing against him during training. _No Careers. That's good. Now, where to run?_ Haymitch was right. There's all kinds of temptations at the Cornucopia. He spots a backpack that's on the outskirts. It's less than 20 metres away. There's a box, too. Tom squints, reading the bloc letters, ANIMAL TRAP.

_38 seconds_.

He prioritises. Backpack first, then go for the box. There's a spear, too. It's out on the right-hand flank, and if he can get to it fast enough, it's his. There. He's got a route, but if it doesn't go to plan, he can always just run with what he manages to get. Or just let everything go to hell.

_26 seconds._

The arena is varied. A tall grassland area is situated directly behind the Cornucopia. The long grass will likely conceal him. _Find high ground. _Haymitch's words echo around in his head. The grassland slopes upwards towards a rocky outcrop in the distance. _Perfect._

_15 seconds._

That's all Tom has time to consider. He pushes his hair out of his eyes and lunges forward. He deepens his breathing. Adrenaline pumps through his body, and he clenches his jaw so he doesn't visibly shake. His piercing grey eyes are fixed on his first target. _Just run_, Tom thinks._ Just run._

Effie squeals. Close-ups of each tribute flash on the screen, so fast Effie barely has time to catch them. The arena clothing is different this year. Each tribute wears a camouflage long-sleeved t-shirt. The colour scheme depends on the District. District 2 sports the characteristic rust-red, with grey as the complimentary colour. For Twelve, it's black with green. It's the first year in a while that the tributes wear shorts: khaki, stopping at the knees. No jackets this year, almost no protection against weapons or the elements.

_TEN. NINE. EIGHT. SEVEN._

_SIX. FIVE. FOUR._

_THREE. TWO._

_ONE._

And all descends into utter chaos. Effie grips the arm of the sofa tightly. It's proving difficult to keep track of Tom and Muscida. The coverage keeps alternating camera angles, jostling to show the best parts of the action. The swinging of weapons and the spilling of blood. The Careers race straight to the mouth of the Cornucopia, grab their weapons of choice, and begin to battle against the stragglers. One of the stragglers is Muscida, who comes face-to-face with Gravston. His weapon of choice is a steel baton. He grips both hands around it securely, and swings. His aim is perfect: striking the side of Muscida's head. She topples to the ground, as if she weighs nothing. It's a death-upon-impact, and Muscida from District Twelve is just another victim of the bloodbath.

Tom was quicker off the mark, and he's grabbed the backpack and the animal trap. He hauls both over his shoulder, and does a quick scan. But Erain is going to the same spear as Tom, and he's built up speed from not collecting anything else. Tom sprints towards the spear, almost shoulder to shoulder with Erain. But Tom is the faster of the two – and he sprints ahead with a haste that Erain is unable to match. Erain grabs at the back of Tom's shirt, forcing Tom to turn towards his attacker. _Bad move,_ thought Tom. He reacts quickly, spinning around with his hand in a tight fist, slamming it into his jaw with a force that makes Erain stumble backwards. Tom shakes his hand and approaches the spear. There's no-one apart from Erain in pursuit of him, so he runs with his items towards the grasslands. It's high grass, and it covers him as he immerses himself deeper into its depths.

The bloodbath is over. Tributes are scattered: hiding or running, with the exception of the career pack, which has grouped together.

_**Ah, the familiar boom of the cannon! You know what that means, folks. End of the bloodbath! Let's see who we lost this year!**_

Effie's heart drops instantaneously. It was less than two hours ago that Effie had embraced her in a farewell hug – touched her skin, heard her wavering voice that was spilling over with fear. Effie didn't know her well, but knew enough about her for the mention of her name to cause a pang of agony in her stomach. Muscida Barker, sixteen. From the merchant class of District Twelve. Has a loving father that doted endlessly on her. No particular skills. But _so young, so fragile, so…real._

Effie can't help but think that she was only four years younger than herself. It's a selfish mindset Effie has held: that her life has only just begun. Each time she postpones getting into a serious relationship or put off family commitments, she gives herself the same justification. That she has time to do all that later. A reassurance that she's young in years, and everything can be done in good time. But for Muscida, there was never that opportunity or choice. Effie hangs her head slightly. She's unsure whether or not she's going to cry, or whether shock has rendered her momentarily incapable.

The notepad on her lap lists the tributes. One by one, she draws a line through the dead. It's a simple action, applying pressure to the pen, dragging it neatly across the paper, but it seems symbolic of just how easy it is for the Capitol to kill these children. To break families apart. To cause havoc and destruction. Without a single consequence.

Haymitch watches as her line runs through the line for the boy from 10. Her fingers bypass the tributes from Eleven – not dead yet – and stops above "Muscida Barker – Sixteen – District 12". Haymitch notices a slight shake that throws her perfect line into a jagged stroke. Effie had managed to keep her cheery cover for the week – she hadn't let her guard down since the first night on the train. But she's beginning to feel it crack. And if she cracks, well, she doesn't quite know what will happen then. All she knows is that she can't keep this up with all this death going on around her. She can't believe she hasn't notices the effect before.

Haymitch hasn't said a word, and his persistence at remaining in a dismal silence is making her uneasy. It's 90 minutes in, and Effie is beginning to feel nauseous. It started with that pang of agony that rooted itself deep in her stomach – reminiscent of a physical blow, but it hasn't subsided. Effie's glad she went easy on breakfast this morning. It's lucky, otherwise she's sure she would have lost control of her stomach by now. There's a stinging sensation at the corner of her eyes, and she sucks in breath in an attempt not to let the tears overflow. "Haymitch." Her voice is soft, reduced to almost a whisper. He's lucky to catch it through the noise of the Games broadcast. "Haymitch" She's halfway to pleading with him now, and for some reason, it's painful to listen to. He turns his head to face her.

"How-" her voice breaks – she can't hold it steady anymore. "How do you do it?" Haymitch knows damn well what she's referring to. It's the horror and the guilt that lodges so deep inside of you it's impossible to ignore. And it never fully disappears. It only subsides. To assist in this masquerade, to chaperone children, innocents, to their murder…

"Do what?" He retorts, almost scathingly. Effie's eyes have pooled with moisture, threatening to spill over onto her perfect face. Her gaze is fixed on his, and it's in that moment that, for her, Haymitch is becoming a security measure. He's done this before, He's familiar with the pain. She barely whispers the word, and her lip trembles slightly. "Cope?" They give her eyes a glassy appearance. "I drink."

It's hardly a satisfying answer- it does little to fill the void. But it reminds her that Haymitch is hurting too. He's hurting constantly, and every time he loses a tribute, it's just another reminding blow. "You've still got one tribute, Trinket." Effie is mildly surprised by his words, and if there was someone else in the room, she would have sworn it wasn't him who spoke them. There it was again. Hatred, bitter and boiling. Eating her alive. "A tribute who's just going to die!" She snapped back. It rolls bitterly off her tongue, perfectly articulated, perfectly cutting. But she knows it isn't Haymitch who she should direct the brunt of her anger to.

It's an impulse that Haymitch feels compelled to act on. She's so fragile sitting there, and her composure is cracking. She's desperately hoping he won't pull his eyes away, it's a connection that she wants to keep. But he doesn't look away. Instead, he moves closer, and she's almost shaking with anticipation as she tries to predict his next move.

He would have every right to be angry with her. After all, she's everything Capitol, and it was everything Capitol that killed him. Effie wouldn't blame him if he lashed out at her, attacked her with such wrath and scorn she'd feel remorseful for being raised the Capitol way and not despising it.

But he doesn't. His actions are much more favourable. He tentatively raises his hand to her cheek, running his fingers along the smooth skin below, until his thumb reached her jaw, raising her chin back to eye-level. "Chin up, sweetheart." It's a silent, largely unspoken agreement: both share the hurt, both understand the pain. But leave it at that. Effie gives a weak smile, as she desperately forces her eyes to trap her tears and prevent them from staining her face.

….

Time passes, and Tom remains alive. He seems to be aware that he is being followed by Erain, who now sports a nasty bruise on his jaw. It's almost afternoon by the time Tom finally stops. He rummages through the contents of his backpack. Matches. A bag of nuts. A stock of dried meat. A medium-sized loaf of bread. A blanket. A kit for burns. Combined with the animal trap mechanism and the spear, he's made out quite well. Tom continues walking towards the rocky outcrop. The high grass covers his tracks, and every now and again he stops and listens, raises his head to see if he can see any approachers. But Erain has slowed his pace.

The temperature is heating up. Effie watches the temperature gage at the right-hand side of the screen. 97 Fahrenheit. 98. 99. The numbers are ticking over. Too fast for it to be a natural progression. This is a heatwave designed to draw the tributes back towards a water source. Tom has rolled his sleeve up to his elbows. His hair is slick with sweat, and his breathing has laboured. He continues towards the higher ground. It's the only way he has any hope of locating a water source. He hadn't bothered to look at what other terrains the arena might hold: he was deadest focused on the grasslands. But he's beginning to regret that choice.

"He needs water." Effie breathes out.

"It's way too early in the Games for that, Effie. He'll be fine."

Effie snaps her head around to Haymitch, his eyes still fixed on the shots of Tom moving through the high grass. They're milking this shot for all it's worth: his exposed arms and drenched torso, jet black hair slick with sweat pushed hastily over to the side. It's an attractive shot, and Effie knows that the Capitol will be practically drooling over him. But it makes Effie want to turn away. It's sick. He needs water, not these incessant close-ups.

"He'll be fine?" Effie raises her voice, animating herself with her hands. "Look at him! He's dehydrated!"

Haymitch darts his eyes back to her. "He's thirsty, that's all."

"What's the difference?"

Haymitch huffs in annoyance. "The difference? Here's the difference. Thirsty is when you're tongue goes a little dry. Dehydration is when your body begins to shut down, because it can't function without liquid."

"He's sweating like a pig!"

"That's called calling himself down! Otherwise he'd overheat."

Effie considers offering up another scathing reply, but the shots of Tom cut to another part of the arena, just in time to see the Career pack advancing towards the tributes from 3, crouched down by a stream, cupping their hands to capture a drink of water.

"Oh no…" Effie groaned, reflexively seeking Haymitch's hand as she kept her eyes fixed on the screen. Haymitch stiffened at the contact, his eyes automatically darting to her hand in his to make sure he hadn't imagined it. Her hand seems so small in comparison to his; her slender fingers so delicate against his. He shouldn't be holding her hand, he knows better than that. But the feel of her fingers gently interlocking with his feels almost natural, and so he decides not to pull his hand away, and wrapped his hand around hers. He can't resist the temptation to give it a little squeeze, hoping she won't notice.

The boy from 2 released a kind of guttural war-cry; raising his arm in the air, brandishing his sword. The pack picked up the pace, breaking into a run. District 3 struggled not to trip over their feet as they bolted away, abandoning their belongings as they tore across the cracked earth.

_**Wow! Look at how fast they go! **_Ceasar chanted enthusiastically.

Two squares popped up on the lefthand-side of the screen, one the speed of the tributes from 3, the other the speed of the Career pack. Effie watched as the speed of the Careers approached 30 miles/h, while the tributes from 3 dropped their speed every few seconds.

Gravston took the lead, releasing short, sharp breaths as his arms pumped back and forth, propelling him along. The gap was closing in, the girl flailing as she failed to get enough oxygen into her lungs. The girl whipped her head back, diverting her path to the left before Gravston reached her. But she wasn't fast enough to escape Gravston's footspeed, and he poised his sword at the ready. Effie squeezed her eyes shut, tightening her grip on Haymitch's hand as high-pitched, dreadful screams filled the penthouse.

A cannon sounded. "Is it over?" Effie whispered. Haymitch remained silent, and Effie wondered whether he wasn't going to reply. "Yes." Effie tentatively cracked one eye open, watching as Gravston retracted his sword back into the sheath. The boy from 3 was not caught, but it wouldn't be long before the Careers tracked him down, or dehydration slowly killed him.

The action subdued, and shots cut between the tribute groupings to update their positions. But there was no more combat to show. The Careers advanced towards the boy from 3, Erain tracked Tom, and an alliance had seemingly formed between district 4 and the girl from 7, who bonded together in search of a water source. "Won't last long." Haymitch muttered, as Caesar recapped the odds for each remaining tribute. It was mid-afternoon, and Haymitch was surprised to have a tribute not in immediate peril. He knew Tom was smart, rather strong and quite cunning, but the Games were ruthless. Effie had vigilantly colour-coded her notepad of tributes according to which alliance they belonged to, for future reference.

Haymitch stretched, rubbing his eyes as he considered what to do next. Tom was faring well: making his way towards the rocky outcrop, equipped with his animal trap, backpack and the spear which he grasps in his hand. But the temperature hit 105 degrees, and there's no water in sight. In fact, apart from the stream, no other water source has been found.

"Well Effs, I think you'd better go and secure some more sponsors."

"Why? You said you wouldn't give him anything."

"I did, I know. But there's hardly any water in this arena. It's bone dry. Water's gonna be a high-priced commodity, and every tribute is going to need it. It'll drive the price sky high. We need all the support we can get." Effie listened carefully to his words, only just now fully appreciating what a good strategist Haymitch was. Effie knew he was smart, his own Games proved that. But with all his slurred words and inability to help the tributes in previous Games, she began to doubt his intelligence. _I stand corrected_, Effie thought.

"Fine. But you're coming with me. I'm not letting you make me do all the work. The tributes are as much my responsibility as they are yours." Effie protested. Haymitch sniggered, but nod his head in agreement. "Get yourself cleaned up, Haymitch. Be ready in half an hour." Effie commanded, shutting her notebook and leaving Haymitch alone in the viewing room.

….

Haymitch watches as Effie flips over the page secured to her clipboard, jabbing into a calculator the amount each sponsor was willing to contribute. "Four-hundred and thirty two dollars, total." Effie announced. "How much is water again?" Haymitch turns around, examining the board at the headquarters, giving to-the-minute prices on the more sought-after sponsorship gifts. "850mls for two-hundred and nineteen dollars." Effie nodded, jotting the figure down in a messier version of her elaborate handwriting. "Other amounts?"

Haymitch shook his head. "No. He gets 850mls, it's stupid to not leave any money in reserve." Effie finishes jotting down the price of water, nibbling at her nails on her other hand, and having to force herself to put her hand down to stop the nervous habit. "But what if-" Effie falls short of finishing her sentence. _What if he dies. _Haymitch doesn't need it spelt out, he knows what she's referring to. But Haymitch is adamant, and Effie has to concede, accepting his authority.

Effie watches as the mentors of Districts 1 and 2 approach the official booth, making the transaction for water of much larger amounts than district 12 can afford. Effie passes Haymitch the clipboard with all the sponsorship details, and runs him through which ones to tick off, marking them with tiny stars that Haymitch can hardly see. "But not that one. Mr Medes is exceptionally compassionate, and he might be willing to raise his contribution. Save it for later." Haymitch approaches the booth, filling out the appropriate transaction form, carefully listing the details and amounts, selecting the item and signing off at the bottom. Haymitch pushes the form back towards the cashier, a young boy with jet black hair that sticks up in various places, giving Haymitch the impression he stuck his finger in a light socket this morning. "Well done, Mr. Abernathy. A greater amount than ever, if I recall." The young man chirps as he scans to see if the form is sufficiently filled out, before giving it the Games seal. Haymitch isn't sure whether this was meant as a compliment or not, but offers a meek "Thanks" as he waits for the form to be checked off by the administrator. "Don't let it fall until my signal".

Effie keeps her eyes peeled to the screen, watching as the Career pack receive 4 1 litre cartons of water, one for each tribute. Haymitch returns, holding a plate of various foods in front of her face, shaking it to get her to hold it before he drops it all over her fine clothes. "Eat." He offhands, between mouthfuls of food. Effie keeps her eyes peeled to the screen, waiting to see the expression on Tom's face as he receives a much-needed and much-deserved gift.

Erain receives a parachute, and watches it fall from the blinding sun. It drops right in front of his feet, and Erain gets on his knees, desperately pulling at its packaging. Haymitch raises a finger to the administrator, who gives a nod, and presses a button on the device clipped to his ear, muttering "now". Effie crinkles her brow. "What are you doing?". Haymitch finishes his mouthful of food before answering. "It would have given away his position if I didn't time it right."

"Oh." Effie smiled to herself, letting her eyes wander to Haymitch, deviating from the screen. Tom was incredibly lucky to have Haymitch as mentor. _She_ was lucky to have Haymitch as mentor. Not many Districts were fortunate enough to have a mentor so strategic and savvy. In fact, Effie was almost certain he was unmatched.

….

**I know, this chapter is seriously long. But there were so many elements I really wanted to touch on, and I couldn't resist.**

**On a sidenote, anyone seen the stills from Mockingjay part 1? I'm pretty sure my current sexual orientation is 'Haymitch in a beanie'. But where is the trailer? I need that trailer.  
**

**Expect to have the next chapter around 18/06/14, when my exams finish. It's almost ready, just a bit rough at the moment.**

**Ciao.**


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